


If The Shirt Fits

by bixgirl1



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Clothing Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:06:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12743454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bixgirl1/pseuds/bixgirl1
Summary: Draco has a collection of sheer shirts. One night, Harry notices.





	If The Shirt Fits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [camaelczarka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camaelczarka/gifts).



> Inspired by [Camael's](https://camael-fanart.tumblr.com/) _amazing_ art piece, which I literally could not stop thinking about. (Omg please go look at it [HERE](https://camael-fanart.tumblr.com/post/167317314068/headcanon-draco-has-a-collection-of-sheer-shirts) to see what I mean. <3)
> 
> Thanks to the ever lovely [Loveglowsinthedark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/pseuds/loveglowsinthedark/works?fandom_id=136512) for the beta. <3
> 
> All characters belong to JKR and associated publishers.

“Going to fuck you, Malfoy,” Potter says into his mouth. His hips rock against Draco’s in a methodical, undulating rhythm that has Draco gasping, his mouth widening further with it, Potter’s tongue plunging inside. Draco makes a high, shocked sound as their cocks come into contact through Potter’s jeans and his own leather trousers and Potter hesitates, then works his hips faster. His fingers, threaded tight into Draco’s hair, move down to slip under the collar of his shirt to stroke the nape of his neck. They leave cool trails behind them, Draco’s skin yearning for that singular heat to coast back over it.

This is not how this is supposed to go.

First, Draco is supposed to be in charge. That’s how it _is_ in his head, as he twists his fist over his cock in the shower before bed every night, his body shuddering under spray so hot that he needs to use his wand to clear the steam afterward. 

Draco _likes_ being in charge. Likes splaying himself out for _very specific_ types of shagging, whatever he’s in the mood for that night. Likes having control in every aspect of his life — especially in the bedroom — and he never, ever begs.

Or, he never has before.

“Please,” Draco says, if one could call it that. It comes out a mewl, sharp and desperate, a reedy note of hunger.

He’s not _stupid._ He’s seen Potter look at him a time or two since Draco began working at the Ministry. He knows Potter’s type lends itself to lithe blonds, like the Quidditch Keeper from a year ago and the pompous Unspeakable from two months back. But it was supposed to be _Draco’s_ idea that he bring Potter back to his flat, and Draco’s idea that they open a bottle of wine (or two) as they went over some witness statements. It was going to be _Draco_ skimming his mouth over Potter’s jaw to drive _him_ crazy, not—

“You taste,” Potter says with a low growl, “so fucking good.” He applies his lips to the bend of Draco’s neck, sucking the blood to the surface, tongue firm as it laves at the bruise left behind. 

Draco hears himself make another one of those embarrassing noises as he feebly tries the jaw-skimming thing he’s imagined so many times, mouthing at the light stubble Potter always seems to have. Potter seems to like it, true — if his distracted hum of appreciation is anything to go by — but he’s still walking Draco back toward the bed, which means he still has full functioning use of his legs. And frankly, Draco’s not sure that’s true of himself.

Potter tastes of salt, and faintly bitter like the ale Draco saw him drinking, his cheeks gone ruddy and dark as he’d stared at Draco with a struck expression from across the room at Pansy’s party. And if Pansy hadn’t become so close to Granger of late ( _We’re just friends!_ she insists, as though Draco doesn’t know her well enough to spot the lie in the way her throat turns splotchy whenever Granger raises an eyebrow and licks her lips), then Draco wouldn’t be fucking _seeing_ Potter everywhere like this, disrupting all of his carefully thought out machinations.

“P-P-Potter,” Draco says, his head falling back like a flower with a broken stem. It’s incredibly annoying, the way Potter always manages to bollocks things up for Draco — and really, Draco decides as he rides Potter’s thigh, he’s quite furious about it. He needs to take the reins before this all descends into madness. “I think—”

“Don’t,” Potter says in what could only be described as a purr. Licking Draco’s skin has made Potter _purr,_ and Draco’s brain shorts out at the rolling, husky sound. 

“Okay,” Draco says faintly, and they topple onto the bed.

The second thing that was supposed to be different was is actually related to the first: he’s supposed to know what the hell is going on. As much as he’d like to claim this is the case — as Potter smoothly works open the clasp on his belt and undoes his flies — Draco not only doesn’t have an actual clue, but can barely recall his own name. If Potter had only _waited_ until their appointment the following Friday, Draco would have brought him back to his flat to retrieve those “forgotten” statements. And then the wine, and then the jaw thing, and then Potter’s priceless fucking face that Draco has been so looking forward to when Draco ordered him to wank whilst Draco started the tease of opening himself up with two fingers and his special twenty-Galleon-an-ounce rose scented lube. 

“ _That was the **plan** ,_” Draco says with a ragged gasp, annoyed and then… _not_ , as Potter shoves Draco’s leather trousers down around his thighs and releases his prick. He tries to get his bearings, but it feels too good, the way Potter’s knuckles skid over Draco’s jumping stomach muscles through the thin material of his shirt.

“What?” Potter asks absently. His nimble fingers close around the length of Draco’s shaft. 

“What?” Draco repeats, jerking his hips into the vice of Potter’s fist. Potter gives him a wicked smile, and _Merlin_ , his faint, almost unnoticeable dimple flashes. Draco’s prick throbs warningly; even the paps haven’t caught onto that dimple. Draco himself has only seen it a handful of times before the war, gaze drifting over instinctively at the sound of Potter's laugh in school. But he hasn’t seen it in years, and it's _never_ been directed at him..

“A plan, you said?” Potter prompts, eyes on the swollen head of Draco’s cock as it pokes out of his fist.

“No,” Draco says, closing his eyes against the wave of lust that shudders through him at the sight. He’s mortifyingly close — totally unacceptable; his bloody shirt is still on! — and this has to stop at once. “ _More_.”

Potter, the rat bastard, gives a low chuckle and loosens his hand. He levers himself over Draco, body planked up and away, hands sinking into the mattress on either side of Draco’s head. “You’re too close,” he says flatly.

“That just means I’ll _come_ ,” Draco snaps. Potter laughs again and kisses Draco hard. Draco’s hands fly to Potter’s hips. He tries to drag Potter closer for the necessary friction, but Potter refuses to yield. He just stays like that for several moments, rubbing his tongue against Draco’s in such a fashion that Draco is convinced he’s always been right about him.

Potter really is evil.

Fortunately, Draco is comfortable with that. He tries to wind his arms around Potter’s neck but ends up with his hands in Potter’s hair as Potter works his way lower, from Draco’s mouth to his throat again and further down. Potter’s breath is hot and dampens the sheer chiffon of Draco’s shirt. He kisses across Draco’s chest, torturously slow. With great effort, Draco lifts his hands from Potter’s surprisingly silky mess of hair and brings them to his buttons, slipping the highest out of its button hole, but Potter’s hands — firm, forceful — cover his. 

“Leave it on,” he says, the bloom of a blush spilling over his tawny cheeks. Just like it had at the party before he’d abruptly finished off his drink, strode up to Draco and leaned in.

“Malfoy,” he’d said, almost too low to be heard over the din, but Draco could hear it — he could _always_ hear Potter say his name.

“Potter,” he said, striving for a level tone even as Potter reached out to — shockingly — lift a lock of Draco’s hair from where it had fallen against his cheek. He rubbed it between his finger and thumb for a moment and Draco _swayed_ , breath catching, throat running dry.

“We have a meeting next Friday.”

“We do,” Draco said. He shot a panicked glance to Pansy, who had wandered away — the traitorous cow — and was whispering in Granger's ear, Granger’s ridiculously exuberant curls blocking his view. Draco squared his shoulders. “Did you need to reschedule?”

“Yeah,” Potter said, letting go of Draco’s hair and taking the cup from Draco’s hand. Vivid green eyes roamed the length of Draco’s body before flicking back up to his face, and what he was asking was unmistakable. “You busy now?”

“ _It’s my best friend’s birthday, you presumptuous prick,_ ” Draco hissed… Or _would_ have, if what hadn’t come out in a surprised stutter was, “We could go to mine?”

Disconcerted now at seeing that blush again, Draco’s hands fall away from his buttons. He wants to object that his shirt costs three-hundred Galleons and is tailor-made, that it’s his favourite sheer shirt from the collection of them that hangs in his wardrobe. It’s Slytherin green, after all, with built in warming charms that allow him to wear it even in the dead of winter and not get hypothermic. Anyhow, it’s definitely _not_ something that should be worn while getting fucked — spunk is one of the hardest fluids to spell out of fabric, let alone material as fine as the silk that makes up Draco’s shirt. 

Potter watches him narrowly for a beat, then clears his throat and lowers his head again, his breath finally, _finally_ starting to come faster, his control _finally_ starting to slip. Unfortunately, Draco discovers — as Potter’s wet, sucking mouth finds Draco’s nipple — that control doesn’t… transfer. 

Draco groans, _“Fuck,”_ unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Because surely _someone_ has to be in control, right?

But apparently not. The wanton sound is echoed by Potter as he sucks at Draco’s nipple through his shirt. The material rasps over Draco's sensitive skin, Potter’s tongue flicking wet and hot against it, and it tightens further. 

“They’re so pretty,” Potter mumbles into his skin. Draco’s body _burns_ — sudden and startling — at the praise. His neglected cock rises up for a moment before thumping back against his belly and Draco reaches for it just to wrap a tight grip around the base. 

“My, my—” Draco manages, writhing into Potter’s questing tongue. His legs are still caught in his trousers and with a little effort Draco kicks them further down and off, leaving the lower half of his body bare.

“Yeah,” Potter says, muffled. His eyes slide up to Draco’s face but he keeps his mouth against Draco’s shirt. As Draco watches, Potter casts him a crooked smile and bites down, catching Draco’s nipple between his teeth before slowly pulling away, a bit of material caught between his lips until he opens them. “Your, your.”

Potter returns himself to his task on the opposite side, grazing his teeth over Draco’s other nipple in a tease that has Draco’s legs falling obscenely wide. One of Potter’s hands strays between them and Draco thinks he must be propping himself up with magic because he’s positioned over Draco with only one hand for balance, their bodies barely touching, his shoulders hunched so his mouth can reach Draco’s chest. Draco feels Potter’s knuckles brush over his cock as Potter works his own flies open, accompanied by the soft rustle of denim — even as he flattens his tongue and licks a rough stripe over the tight bud of Draco’s nipple. Draco groans, catching the back of Potter’s head in his grip and pulling it closer, pressing Potter’s mouth to him. Potter nods jerkily with another hot breath.

“Now,” Draco says, eyes sliding to gaze blankly at his gauzy bed-hangings. His arsehole clenches repetitively, reminding him of how empty he feels — made all the worse by the way Potter’s gotten his jeans off and is rutting what feels to be a wonderfully massive cock against the inside Draco’s thigh. He wants to take a look, but his neck has gone lax and he can’t bring himself to lift his head, not with his nipple being rolled between Potter’s teeth like that. Potter must have hexed him with a muscle relaxation jinx at some point, the tosser, and Draco decides this is not on at all. He thinks he should perhaps roll them over and tie Potter’s wrists to his bedposts before he lowers himself onto Potter’s cock or sits on Potter’s face for a bit, just to show him who's in _charge_. 

He whines, instead.

“Hmm, yeah,” Potter says roughly, “okay.”

Blood roars through Draco’s ears in anticipation, but all Potter does is pull off him to strip his own t-shirt off, hand flat on Draco’s stomach to keep him in place. (As if Draco’s muscles would cooperate with the inclination to move after Potter’s hex, he thinks resentfully.) Still, Potter’s apparently done nothing to Draco's eyes so he slides them down to see Potter above him, sitting back on his heels. His cock — Jesus and fucking _Merlin_ — bobs out heavily from a thatch of black curls at his groin, fully hard and twitching. Potter grips it, stroking the foreskin back distractedly and Draco moans at the sight. He drags eyes gaze up the length of Potter’s wiry body, hungrily taking in his burnished, ochre skin until he meets Potter’s famous green gaze, which has gone dark with lust and intent.

Draco widens his thighs, nudging his hips up a bit in expectation — at least Potter’s hex allows him _some_ use of his own body — but Potter just gives him a dirty smile before sliding down onto his belly, shoulders between Draco’s open legs. Unceremoniously, he sucks Draco’s cock into his mouth, all the way to the base.

“ _Nnggghh_!” The sound that breaks free from Draco’s throat has got to be an objection for Potter’s audacity — he very _clearly_ indicated he was ready for Potter’s cock, thank you — which is why Draco is so confused at the way his fingers tangle through Potter’s wild hair, the way they're twisting the strands of it so desperately. Potter’s mouth is scorching on him and so fucking slick. His tongue swipes over the leaking head of Draco’s prick whenever he pulls back and flutters against the vein underneath as his lips redescend. He curls it around the shape of Draco’s erection as he tongues Draco’s foreskin back and drags his head down so that Draco gets a split second of the sweet, tight constriction of Potter’s throat. 

“I’ll come!” Draco yelps, high and alarmed, offended — not charmed, of course not; _offended_ is what he is — when Potter chuckles against him and draws back, firming up his tongue to a point to lick into Draco’s slit. He lifts his head.

“No you won’t,” he promises. He wraps one hand around the base of Draco’s prick tightly. The urgent need to climax ebbs again and Draco glares at the top of Potter’s head. He opens his mouth to object — who does Potter think he _is_ , after all, telling Draco he can’t come? — but then slick fingers are suddenly slipping between Draco’s clenching arse cheeks and prodding at his hole and Draco decides that it’s fine; he can hold out a little longer. 

He thinks he perhaps moans as Potter’s fingers breach him but the sound is muted by the shiver of sensation that rolls through Draco’s body, Potter pushing two fingers past the tight ring of muscle to loosen him up. Potter slides his mouth over the head of Draco’s cock again, flattening his tongue against the glans and swirling it as he works his fingers deeper, down to the knuckles. Draco crooks his knees and places one heel on Potter’s shoulder. The other lands, somehow, on the top of Potter’s head, Potter’s low laugh causing another ripple of arousal to spike through Draco. 

And, honestly, how is he even supposed to _enjoy_ this if he can’t _concentrate_ , Draco wonders dismally, moaning, his balls starting to throb. Through some miracle of his own magic, he finds the presence of mind to move his foot off Potter’s bobbing head to his other shoulder. Potter adds another finger and twists all three in, brushing the pads against Draco’s prostate.

“Potter!” Draco barks, or tries to. It comes out breathy, needy, pleading. What self-respecting wizard _sounds_ like that? Draco certainly never has. Must be another one of Potter’s devious hexes. “Fuck me.”

Potter pulls his mouth off Draco’s cock, smirking. He shoves his fingers deep again and when Draco’s hips fly up, he promptly removes them.

“Yeah,” he says in a rumbly voice, prowling up Draco’s quivering body, “yeah, I want to. I’ve wanted to for a fucking _year_ , Malfoy.”

Wordless with surprise, Draco barely processes the next hard kiss Potter bestows on him, or the bite he scrapes over Draco’s nipple again as he pulls back to settle on his heels once more. He winds strong hands around Draco’s ankles and yanks him forward, Draco’s arse sliding up over the tops of Potter’s thighs. 

It’s not entirely comfortable. Draco's shoulders are pressed oddly to the mattress and the small of his back is bent at a strange angle, but then Potter throws Draco’s ankles up to dangle his feet over his own shoulders, curling Draco’s body inward. Potter’s hands on Draco’s hips keep him in place — keep his arse from sliding off the tilting degree of Potter’s thighs — and this is… weird. Draco has _no_ leverage like this and he doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, not until the spongy head of Potter’s cock is pressing forward, Draco’s rim stretching and burning around it. Draco blinks rapidly. His hands scrabble against his duvet, breath hitching as he struggles to adjust to the intrusion, because Potter’s too large for any amount manual prep to make it easy, but _fuck_ if it doesn’t feel good, too. He bears down against it with short, sharp pants and Potter stares at him, his face a twist of furrowed concentration as he continues to drag Draco’s arse against him, cock spearing deep. 

“ _Yes,_ , fuck,” Potter gasps as he finally bottoms out. Draco’s mouth works silently and he gulps in tiny lungfuls of air, even as Potter pumps his hips experimentally. The angle brings the head of Potter’s cock into direct, shocking contact with Draco’s prostate and Draco wriggles with an overwhelm of sensation, unsure if he can take even this little bit. Potter inhales. “You’re tight.”

“You’re just overly large,” Draco snaps weakly, feeling the need to argue about something. It must not come out as insulting as he’d intended, because Potter directs a feral smile downward and nudges his hips. Draco arches, turning his head to the side as the stinging pleasure of being fucked pierces every nerve ending he has. And anyway, he’s not lying — Potter’s stretching him to the point where he can feel every throb and jerk of Potter’s cock.

“Knew you’d take it well,” Potter says, eyes falling from Draco’s face to the blotchy dark patches of wet fabric over Draco’s nipples. He groans under his breath then shoves his cock in and pulls back, starting a punishing, grinding rhythm that makes Draco want to wail with frustration, his own prick pressed against his bent stomach and smearing precome over his skin on each brutal glide of Potter in and out of his arse. 

Potter’s hands coast under him, massaging his arse cheeks wider and Draco snarls, “Fuck you,” bringing up his heel to kick the top of Potter’s shoulder with enough force that Potter looks momentarily startled. Then he takes Draco’s leg and winds it around his hip and _aahhhh, fuck, yes,_ that’s better. He takes the other ankle and does the same on the opposite side, and though Draco is still splayed open, at least this way he can cross his legs behind the small of Potter’s back to urge him closer. 

One of Potter’s hands falls to his stomach, sliding under his shirt as he continues rock himself deep. His eyes flare and Draco looks down to see the darker skin of Potter’s hand under the sheer fabric, highlighting the paleness of his own. Draco shudders and finally manages to loosen one of his hands knotted in his bedcovers to curl it around his prick. He strokes himself roughly, Potter pulling him back to bounce Draco’s arse against his groin, and it takes barely anything at all — four, five pulls — before Draco swears coarsely as he comes, spunk coating his fist and shirt. 

“Malfoy,” Potter says on a hard growl, and yes, _finally_ the wanker comes undone. Potter’s forehead is dotted with perspiration and he judders his hips gracelessly as Draco watches him, pleasure still thrumming hot and shivery through his body from his climax. Draco can feel the spasms of his arse around the girth of Potter’s cock, can feel Potter’s shaft get even harder, and then Potter cries out and shuts his eyes. The hand on Draco’s stomach clenches painfully, fingers digging into the lean muscle there, and Draco feels his arse flood with the wet warmth of Potter’s orgasm, pulse after pulse of it. 

Good. Great even, Draco decides with tired shock. Now he can demand to know what the bloody fuck just happened. 

“Kiss me,” he says.

Potter blinks his eyes open. His face softens a touch, jaw unclenching, and he swoops down without bothering to pull out, scooting his knees back so he can slide over Draco and kiss him. It’s rough to start, like their first dizzying kiss of the night when Potter had shoved Draco against the wall next to his Floo and taken possession of his mouth so thoroughly that Draco forgot where his bedroom was when Potter asked. But this kiss softens, becomes questing and sweet and Draco… Well, he’s not a questing and sweet sort of wizard, either, but when he decided tonight — at some point, he’s sure — that it would be interesting to let someone else take charge for once, he opened himself up to new possibilities. 

When Potter pulls away, his mouth his shiny and his eyes are warm. He disengages their bodies with a tiny grimace and rolls to his side, propping his head on his hand as he smiles down at Draco.

“This was nice,” he murmurs, dancing his fingertips down the row of buttons on Draco’s ruined shirt.

“Nice?” Draco asks drily, barely able to believe his ears. The nerve of—

“Well, yeah,” Potter says in that earnest, irritating way of his that never fails to make Draco’s stomach feel strange and twisty. “Like I said, I’ve wanted you for a while. You’re bloody gorgeous.”

Draco blinks, remembering that. “I know,” he says unthinkingly, startled when Potter laughs. 

“I was going to make a play next Friday,” Potter says. Draco twists his head too fast to look at him, narrowing his eyes, but Potter seems guileless as ever. 

“Conceited prick,” Draco says, not sure why his face heats. “How’d you know I’d even consider—”

“You have conversations with my cock before you remember I have a face, whenever you come into my office with files,” Potter says, wry. Draco scowls at him.

“Well, then you’re bloody impatient,” Draco snaps, not bothering to deny it. Because so what? He was _seducing_ Potter, that was the whole _point._ Potter wasn’t supposed to quite… _know_ that Draco was seducing him, but that’s immaterial now, so he moves on. “Why not just wait for next Friday?”

“I destroyed your shirt,” Potter says with a hard swallow instead of answering. Draco glowers at the reminder, glancing down to see his favourite shirt covered with spunk and saliva, the material rumpled and stained beyond repair. He looks back up to lay into Potter and stops. Potter’s eyes are bright, his pupils getting bigger as he stares at Draco’s nipples through the sheer, ruined fabric. As if _Imperiused_ he reaches out to tweak one of them. Draco shudders, eyes on Potter’s face.

Oh.

_Oh._

Draco smiles. “It’s fine." Draco relaxes a little and allows himself to enjoy the tingling sensation of Potter’s hand toying with his chest.

“It is?” Potter’s eyes dart up to Draco’s face, his face a twist of amused disbelief. “I thought you’d be more high-maintenance than that.”

“Oh, I am,” Draco says, groping for his wand. Finding it, he casts it at his wardrobe. “But you see,” he adds, as the doors fly open, “I have a whole collection of them.”

Potter’s face goes delightfully slack. His eyes darken further and the next thing Draco knows, he’s being kissed — and likely about to be fucked into the mattress again.

Smug, Draco gives himself over to it.

He loves when things go according to plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are lovely. Also, I'm on [tumblr](https://bixgirl1.tumblr.com) now too! *waves*


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